


Don't send me flowers when I'm dead (send them, while I'm still alive)

by ravelqueen



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Language of Flowers, Season/Series 03, because that is sure what you are getting!, hope you guys like rambly sadness and murky meanings!, implied past Damien Moreau/Eliot Spencer, references to murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 07:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13094898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravelqueen/pseuds/ravelqueen
Summary: "Maybe the flowers aren’t for him, since they haven’t exactly been sent to his address (if they had, he doesn’t care, he doesn’tcarewhat it might do to the team, what it would do to Hardison and Parker, he’d be gone)"Moreau always tries to keep tabs on Eliot. And makes sure to let him know.





	Don't send me flowers when I'm dead (send them, while I'm still alive)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whimseyrhodes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimseyrhodes/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: "A situation with Moreau. After Eliot realizes the team is after him, he contacts Eliot (for a job, for a taunt, whatever). The result is that Eliot is even more antsy. Delve into his mind space."
> 
> This challenge was _kicking my ass_. The amount of times I re-scripted or changed the prompt I decided to do was unreal. 
> 
> Which is why I hope you'll still like it, dear recipient, even though it came out a lot...weirder than I originally intended your gift to be.

_White Camellia, heliotrope, jonquil and azalea, tied with a black ribbon_

It might just have been flowers. Eliot doesn’t know, he doesn’t _know_ for _sure_ that they aren’t. It could be some weird romantic fancy from that waitress he’d picked up.

(It’s a sign of how scattered he’s been, since Nathan told them his big idea. Because he doesn’t know for sure if she was called Charlene or Chancy, can’t quite remember the name of the bar. This doesn’t _happen,_ he makes sure to always pin down something _distinctive_ , because it’s safer, because you never know when it will help, whose scent you need to remember, because next time you see them, they might try to knife you in the back.)

It really might be nothing. Maybe the flowers aren’t for _him,_ since they haven’t exactly been sent to his address (if they had, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t _care_ what it might do to the team, what it would do to Hardison and Parker, he’d be _gone_ ). Instead, they have been placed places where he _would_ be, places he goes to, gyms and certain bars and organic grocery stores.

Places he doesn’t tell people about, but where someone who _knows_ him might think he’d go to. And see.

He’s paranoid. They aren’t any patterns to when they show up (that he can ascertain, and he can almost hear Moreau’s voice in his head, saying: _leave the thinking to the people that are good at it, darling_ , feel him petting his hair). He’s thinking too hard, why would _he_ know – why would he _care –_

But Eliot knows why, he knows that he’s not just paranoid ( _not paranoid, if they really out to get you_ ), because he knows Moreau’s sense of humour, he knows _him_ , and he still knows the exact shade of black of the _distinctive_ fabric he used for his cruellest, playful missives. Remembers the smell of heliotrope all around him and how _proud_ he was of his place at the beginning. How he'd thought it meant appreciation, that Moreau chose this symbol of devotion to represent him. That it meant he'd only use him when he needed, when it was _necessary_ , when he was the only one Moreau could trust. That he was special (that someone _cared_ )

It didn't take him long to understand that what Moreau saw, what he _appreciated_ , was the loyal dog. What did take him long was truly understanding that Moreau _didn't_ care. Doesn't mean, he doesn’t still like to fuck with Eliot’s head.

“ELIOT!” Hardison shouts from the hallway, making him jump the tiniest bit “MOVE YOUR FUCKING ASS AND HELP ME WITH THIS EQUIPMENT, IT’S HEAVY!”

“Hold your horses, what, you think your nerd arms are gonna fall off?!” Thank god Parker didn’t seem to be around, because _she_ would have seen him jump, which would lead to questions, which he definitely doesn’t need right now.

“I’m not the muscle, man.” Hardison quips back, smiling full force over what looks like half the computer equipment from a small electronics store. “Now if you please, move these babies in.” he waves a lordly hand over all the boxes, like a stage performer and Eliot has to stop himself from smiling. Can’t encourage him, after all.

Instead, he leans against the door, arms crossed, arrogant smirk fixed in place and almost feels like himself again when he says, “Far as I can see, this is nerd equipment, so not my division.”

The resulting bitchy rant does a lot to give him at least part of his equilibrium back and he’s grateful enough that he starts really helping almost immediately.

He ignores the slightly worried look Hardison gives him at that, when he thinks he isn’t looking (He’s _always_ looking).

He puts the last box down, using the exertion as a cover to let out the breath he seems to have been holding since yesterday, when he’d seen the latest bouquet sitting incongruously in one of the few coffee shops he likes to visit sometimes. (They play good music, _Hardison_ ).

“Why are you sighing?” And this time it _is_ Parker, so it’s immediately followed up with “Did you just _jump_?”

“No.” he says, trying to bodily remove her from his path, to which she responded by just flowing out of the way.

“Yes, you did!” she bounds after him, staring at his face, giving Hardison the idea that staring is _ok_ now, which, great. Absolutely what he needs right now.

The thing with Parker was that she was observant, so much more observant in some ways than even Nate and Sophie were – at least when it came to him, which was -, which he _wouldn’t_ think about – but something about her attitude, about her _lightness_ made Eliot relax around her, made him, not _forget_ how observant she was, only forget to be careful about it.

It pissed him off. Which was at least an emotion Parker was used from him, so not something else she could find weird.

“Why are you grumpy?” she’s frowning now, which shit. He shouldn’t have come, should have _known_ that one day wasn’t going to be enough to calm down the jitters, the persistent voice in his head, telling him to _run, run now_. Because Moreau knew where he _was_.

“Don’t need a reason, Parker, but maybe slugging three thousand pounds of useless junk through the loft just isn’t my idea of fun.” He sends a glare to Hardison for good measure and he thankfully obliges him with a rant about _How dare he_ and _It’s not junk, just because your unsophisticated ass doesn’t understand it._

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” And he’s even feeling like smiling a bit, again, Hardison’s voice the soothing, predictable soundtrack to the slow unwinding of some of his muscles, when he throws back, “If there isn’t anything _important_ to do, I’m going, so I don’t end up a pack mule again.”

The feeling vanishes again though, replaced by a weird unsettling feeling in his stomach, when Parker tackle hugs him from behind, only to whisper in his hair, “I understand, Hardison speeches relax me too, sometimes.”, only to then bound away so quickly that he can’t do anything but hope that Hardison hasn’t noticed the slight stumble in his step (He clearly hasn’t. He’s almost sure Parker has.)

Because fuck. Here he is, letting rambling distract him into being comfortable, letting himself be _known_ by someone. Even though Moreau knows where he is. And he’s still helping the team go after him, like the loyal little wind-up soldier he is.

Fuck.

* * *

 

There are no flowers for several weeks, the old ones discarded, and he has almost convinced himself that even if it _was_ Moreau, the message might have not been for him. (Moreau laughs in his mind’s eye, placing a heliotrope onto his bloody stomach, satisfaction all over him).

Or at least that if it’s for him, it’s nothing to do with _now_ , nothing to do with his team, with their plan. Just Moreau being Moreau, reminding him of his place. Reminding him how deep he’s still got his claws in him, that he can’t look at flowers, tied together with a black ribbon, without understanding the meaning.

Without hearing Moreau’s voice in his ear, telling him about the secret language of flowers, while he pets through his hair in a mockery of gentleness, glittering eyes on the blood he didn’t allow Eliot to wash off.

The first time he woke up, aching, blood and semen crusting on his skin to an arrangement of white orchids, camellias and roses in front of him and _truly_ known what it meant, he’d wanted to _scream._

He’d kept the roses afterwards, _always_ , dried them where Moreau couldn’t see. _Death is Preferable to Loss of Virtue –_ he snorts at himself, at his own hypocrisy, because yet here he still is.

They work cases and he finds his feet again a bit, tries to get back to a good distance from Hardison and Parker, without them noticing. He only somewhat succeeds on both fronts, because from their insistence to include him in things, to haul him close, to _touch_ him, they clearly noticed _something._

And the other part, the distancing part is _hard_ , so hard when they are so close all the time. When he has to see Hardison play the violin, Parker starting to come out of her shell. When they are so _present_ , around him, touching him, familiar and dear and the only thing he has to do to fall.  is not pay attention.

(He knows he is doomed anwway. When he has to stall time in a flower shop he gets them a bouquet of daisies, heliotropes, daffodils and Acacia blossoms, knowing that they won’t understand. Though he makes sure Sophie doesn’t see)

He knows it’s stupid to relax and he thought he didn’t. But he’s an idiot in some ways and the way his insides go _cold_ when Hardison strolls in with an arrangement of yellow chrysanthenums, cypress and fucking forsythias tells him he had grown complacent again.

“Where did you get that.” He barely recognizes his voice, it seems to come from far away. He can only hope that Hardison will be as unobservant as usual, that _his_ mask is at least still somewhat in place, even though he has to concentrate to keep his breathing steady.

“The flowers?” Hardison asks, distracted – _thank god, thank god –_ throwing them carelessly on the counter. “They gave them out at the corner of that shop that get those limited-edition breakfast cereals.”

At which point he sees the shopping bag filled to the brim with brightly coloured cartons.

“I know Parker has an iron determination to only live off of sugar.” He retorts on auto-pilot trying to decide, if Moreau _knows_ , if this was targeted or just a strange, fucking dumb coincidence. “Doesn’t mean you should _help_.”

“Gotta be supportive, brother.” Hardison trills unconcerned, and he needs to get _out_ , because he can smell the cypress and it makes him _sick_.

“Ok..you do that.” And he moves away determinedly, ignoring the worried, small _Eliot, you ok_ behind him. He can deal with that tomorrow. Tomorrow, when he doesn’t hear Moreau’s voice telling him about how the best death threats are hidden, the way he’d sometimes smell the flowers permeating the houses of his targets.

The next day, Nate tells them they are going to D.C. to find out what Damien Moreau will sell in an underground auction. Eliot tries to make himself tell them that Moreau knows they are coming, that this is _madness_.

But the words don’t come and the forsythia – now in a beautifully cut vase that Sophie clearly brought – taunts him with Moreau’s voice whispering _I look forward to seeing you_.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a single venus flytrap in his pockets after he gets away from Moreau, from the pool, from Hardison’s accusing stare turned to sympathy, Parker’s eyes swimming with tears.

He laughs until his side hurt, until someone else might have started crying or screaming. And he holds on to Nate’s voice saying _I have a plan,_ to Sophie’s hand squeezing his neck in support, to Parker not asking and Hardison’s quick hug of forgiveness, while he crumbles the flower in his hand.

“Right back at you.”, he whispers to himself and sits in the dark till Hardison’s voice in his ear tells him it’s time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Flower meanings:  
> white camellia - you're adorable  
> Heliotrope - devotion, faithfulness  
> jonquil - desire (for affection), I love you too  
> azalea - fond remembrance, developing passion, death (when in a black vase)  
> white orchids - beauty, elegance  
> white rose - innocence, You're Heavenly, Secrecy, Silence  
> dried white rose - Death is Preferable to Loss of Virtue  
> yellow chrysanthemum - slighted love, disappointment  
> cypress - death, grief, despair  
> forsythia - I look forward to seeing you  
> venus flytrap - I finally got you
> 
> Title from Brian Clough


End file.
